Liberties
by Luvvycat
Summary: After young Will is rescued from the sea, he becomes a servant in the Swann household, where he and Elizabeth soon become fast friends...until an act of innocent impulse threatens to separate the pair forever. Pre-CotBP W/E with a Sparrabeth epilogue.
1. Prologue

**Liberties**  
>by Luvvycat<p>

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's Note:<em>**_ This story of young Will and Elizabeth was originally posted last week as part of the PotC Big Bang ficfest on LiveJournal, and is based on my previously-posted drabbles "Skirmish", "Resurrected" and "The Gift". There are also references mid-story to events documented in my Young Will/Elizabeth holiday fic "The Christmas Stranger" and this story can be considered part of that continuity. (And J/E fans, take heart! The Epilogue, set six years after the conclusion of AWE, is pure Sparrabeth, rooted in my "Rum and Persuasion" series of tales.) _

_I dedicate this story with my most profuse thanks and boundless admiration to my beta extraordinaire GeekMama (whose invaluable input greatly improved this tale), and to Pearlseed, whose comments to me on LJ regarding "Skirmish" inspired the Epilogue. _

_Hope you all enjoy! 'Ta!_

_- Cat_

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

The last thing he recalled was fire ... fire, paralysing fear, and a great percussive sound like a clap of thunder, only a hundred times louder, a hundred times more fierce ... fiery dragon's breath searing him through his clothing, intense heat licking at his back ...

And falling ...

Falling through chokingly thick air that reeked of gunpowder and woodsmoke, culminating in a breath-taking plunge into freezing wet darkness ... numbing cold, threading its way through his limbs and his veins and the marrow of his bones like icy tendrils of death, plucking at his labouring heart and burning lungs with a raptor's claws, siphoning the warmth from his flesh, stealing bit by bit the very life from his body ...

Then, rising buoyantly, bursting free of the sea's womb to blessed, breathable air and pallid daylight ... the impact of something hard against his shoulder ... his insensate fingers scrabbling at splintered wood as he painfully hauled himself with the last of his strength onto something that bobbed and rode the surface of the water like a cork ... the solid feel of planks against his back as he weakly rolled over, turning his face to a grey-misted sky which filled his vision like a blank canvas painted in the devil's own palette by a madman's hand: swaths of crimson flame edged in orange-gold, swirling smudges of charcoal, billowing soot-black ...

And, finally, darkness, swallowing him up ...

* * *

><p>The next thing of which he was conscious was a feathery touch upon his brow.<p>

He gasped with sudden awareness as his eyes snapped open, panic lending the boy a man's strength as his right arm lashed out, his sea-cold fingers wrapping around soft, warm flesh, delicate bones shifting beneath his vice-like grip, eliciting a gasp which echoed his own.

His eyes slowly focused on a face hovering above him, nearly lost in the pearly grey light of the sky beyond it. A pale oval framed by a nimbus of tawny blonde hair, wide eyes like dark amber gemstones set in ivory.

Was he dead? Was this a heavenly guide, come to lead him to paradise ... some seraph sent to take him to his mother?

The vision spoke:

"It's okay ..." Welcome warmth enclosed his hand as the shining apparition took it between hers. "My name's Elizabeth Swann ..."

The voice was gentle, calming, reassuring ...

_Beautiful ..._

As he stared, the face came into sharper focus ... a pretty face, an angel's face, looking upon him with concern.  
><em><br>Elizabeth Swann ... Elizabeth Swann ..._his mind chanted her name like a psalm as he struggled for breath to speak.

"W-Will ..." he finally was able to get out past trembling, blue-tinged lips. "Will Turner ..."

The lovely creature smiled at him, and he knew then for certain he was in Heaven. "I'm watching over you, Will."

_I'm watching over you ..._

Yes ...

He fell back, and surrendered himself again to the welcoming arms of blessed oblivion, secure in the knowledge that his own, personal guardian angel ...

_Elizabeth Swann ..._

... would take him under her wing, keep him safe ...

* * *

><p>Awareness returned to the feel of gentle fingers threading through his hair ... the smell of hot candlewax, not charred wood, tickling his nostrils ... a soft mattress at his back rather than wet, bobbing boards, and the warmth of a thin woollen blanket spread over him instead of a grey, smoky sky arcing above him.<p>

Flooded with relief, he smiled, still half-asleep. It had all been a dream — a terrible, terrifying dream — and he was safe in his bed, back in England.

Back home…

He drew a breath, and again marked the scent of a candle. He sighed, and his eyes slitted open, just a crack.

Flickering phantoms of shadow and light were cast against the dark walls of the tiny room. A bright flame floated above him and, beyond it, dark, somewhat familiar eyes glittered in a pale, feminine face. Details were temporarily obscured by the hole burnt into his vision by the searing tongue of fire, but her presence calmed him, as only one other person had been able to in his young life.

His sleepy smile widened further. "Mum?" he murmured. The hand stilled in his hair, and he reached up, snared it, drew it to his lips for a kiss, then pressed it to his cheek. "Oh, Mum ... you won't believe the nightmares I've had!"

The hand trembled upon his cheek ... a hand, he gradually realised, too small, too _soft_ to be his mother's. Mama's hand was larger, her palm and the tips of her long fingers callused with the manual labours of a woman who had worked for over a decade to support a growing child and maintain a modest home, with only sporadic support from her absent husband. He became aware of other incongruities as well, that bespoke not an abode securely bound to _terra firma_, but a vessel borne upon the sea: the telltale creak of a ship's timbers, the sway and roll of a hull navigating choppy waters.

And he began to remember ...

_Working passage as a cabin boy aboard the merchant ship _Sally Mae_..._

_Watching a black galleon with black sails appear out of the fog ..._

_The roar of cannonfire ..._

_Cowering in a dark niche, hiding as a horde of raggedy pirates swarmed the deck, slaughtering the crew and passengers, emptying the _Sally Mae_'s hold of its cargo, transferring it with methodical efficiency to the black-sailed ship under the watchful eye and booming voice of her captain, glimpsed in silhouette only against the greying sky: a tall, imposing man in a wide-brimmed, plumed hat..._

_Then, more cannonfire, and a huge explosion as the _Sally Mae_ disintegrated into a massive ball of fire, blazing splinters, and fluttering kites of singed canvas..._

He pushed those nightmare images away, and recalled, as though a distant memory, what had followed ...

His rescue from the sea ... Lord, had it only been today?

Then, being peppered by a barrage of questions that seemed to never end, posed persistently to him by a succession of men in red coats, blue coats ...

And, again, that sweet face he had seen peering down at him.

Had _she_ only been a dream?

He closed his eyes and let his vision clear, the afterimage of the flame fading against his shut eyelids, before he opened them again ...

Looked up ...

Caught his breath ...

_She_was there.

_Elizabeth Swann ..._

His angel, his saviour ... delicate features gilded by the candle's soft glow, shining dark eyes alive with slivers of reflected flame, her hair a golden-bright halo around that lovely face.

Though he had released her hand, her palm remained warm against his cheek.

And when she spoke, her voice was as beautiful, as gentle as he remembered it.

"Will ... Will Turner ... are you all right?" Her hand moved at last, but only to tentatively stroke his cheek. "Is there anything you need? Anything I can get for you? Food? Water?"

He closed his eyes. Shook his head. No. He didn't think anything would ever be all right again. And what he needed was not sustenance, but forgetfulness ... peace ...

_Home ..._

She removed her hand from his face, and he felt suddenly bereft.

Her voice came, soft and sweet, in the dark. "Would ... would you like me to go? Would you prefer to be alone?"

_Alone ..._

He recalled what he had overheard earlier, when he was being questioned ...

_"... the last one alive ... the lone survivor ..."_

_"... bloody pirates ...!"_

_"... might _he_ be one ...?"_

His heart lurched in panic, and his eyes snapped open. "No!" he gasped, his voice a hoarse plea. "No! Please ... stay!"

She nodded her head, turned to set down her candle, confined in its glass-and-brass cage, on a tiny table that appeared to be one of the few other pieces of furniture in the minuscule cabin.

By the wan illumination of the single candle flame he was able to see that the room contained _two_narrow cots, barely long enough to accommodate a boy Will's size, let alone the grown men who would normally be expected to occupy this cabin. The tiny table was wedged between the cots, and two modest-sized sea-chests (no doubt belonging to the cabin's original occupants) took up nearly the entirety of the remaining floor-space.

Elizabeth perched on the edge of the other bed, staring at his face with large, sympathetic eyes. "You ... you called for your mother. Would you like me to write a letter to her for you? To let her know you're all right? I'm sure my father can arrange for one to be sent—"

"No," he interrupted, with a grimace of soul-deep pain. "She's ..." His throat tightened as still-fresh grief washed over him, and it was an effort not to weep, "... she's dead."

"Oh!" Elizabeth breathed, eyes widening, her mouth a round "o" of sympathy. "Was she ..." She bit her lip, hesitated, a look of sorrow on her face. "Was she on the ship that was ... attacked?"

Will swallowed, and shook his head. "No ... she died a few months ago ... back in England."

As he watched, Elizabeth's eyes seemed to shimmer in the candlelight. "Mine, too," she all but whispered. "When I was five."

"Oh!" he echoed her earlier exclamation, then, seeing her sadness, and emboldened by a sudden need to comfort her, he reached out to lay his hand upon hers, where it rested on her knee. "I ... I'm so sorry."

She looked down, sighing deeply, and he felt a wet splash upon the back of his hand. When she looked up again he could see the liquid shine of her eyes, the tiny droplets that dewed her eyelashes. "It's all right ... I still have my father." She sniffed and, composing herself, looked directly into his eyes. "And you?"

He shrugged, and tried not to let her tears call forth his own. "I haven't heard from my father in nearly two years. Not since his last letter to me, and the gift he enclosed with it..." His hand strayed to his throat, unconsciously feeling for a chain that was no longer there, searching the inside of his shirt in vain for the medallion.

"It's gone!" His face fell. "I must have lost it when I fell into the water ..." Likely dislodged during his plunge into the sea, he supposed that the medallion now rested somewhere at the bottom of the ocean.

"That is why I left on the _Sally Mae_, after Mum died. I want to find my father. I learned that the ship that carried his last letter to me came from the Caribbean, so I thought it best I begin my search there." He looked down. "I'm afraid, though..." his voice quavered a bit, "that he may be dead as well."

She was gazing at him with a strange, unreadable expression. "Was your father a ... a pirate?" Elizabeth asked him, tentatively.

His eyes fixed on hers, suddenly smouldering with outraged anger. "Of course not! He was a merchant sailor ... a good man. Not a murdering, thieving pirate!"

She looked somewhat disappointed, then immediately apologetic. "I'm sorry ... I didn't mean to imply that he was _not_ a good man. There are some pirates, after all, that are _still_ good men ..."

"He was _not _a pirate!" he almost shouted. "He was ... _is_... an honest, hard-working sailor!"

She seemed distressed at having upset him, patted his hand reassuringly. "Of course. I'm sorry. Please be still." She glanced apprehensively at the cabin's door. "Or the guard will come in, and I'll have to go ..."

_No. _He didn't want her to go!

He snatched his hand out from under hers, mildly embarrassed. "Beg pardon, Miss Swann—"

"Elizabeth ..." she interjected.

"Elizabeth ..." he tested the sound of her name on his tongue, upon his lips, "... may I ask... why are you here?"

She smiled again, and it was like the sun rising, flooding the tiny cabin with warmth and light. "My father placed you in my care. And no man aboard would dare countermand the order of a crown-appointed Governor, so when I told the guard I had come to tend to you, at my father's bidding, he had little choice but to let me in."

He frowned as the implications of her words sunk in. "Am I under arrest, then?"

"Oh, no!" she was quick to respond. "Well ... there _is_ a guard stationed at your door, but I am assured by Lieutenant Norrington that it is only for your own safety and protection. After all, you _have_been quite ill all day."

He closed his eyes, sighed, and nodded. "Right."

"Are you certain you wouldn't like some food, or water …?"

"I doubt I could keep anything down, at present," he said, weakly. Behind his closed eyelids, he saw again the Captain of the _Sally Mae_, falling bonelessly to the deck, his throat slit, bright blood gushing across the wet boards ...

He felt again her hand upon his, her touch at his brow. "Would you like to ... to talk? About what happened?"

His eyes snapped open, and he shook his head emphatically: _No! _What he could tell her was not fit for the ears of a gently-bred young lady such as she!

"Would you like me to read to you? I could fetch a book from my cabin ..."

"No, thank you," he said.

"Is there _anything_ I can do for you?" she asked, regarding him with a pleading expression, a hint of frustration colouring her tone.

"Will you ...?" He hesitated, feeling his face heat with embarrassment.

"Will I ...?" she prompted, tilting her head slightly in query, and he found even that little motion quite a lovely thing, graceful and elegant like the bird whose name she bore.

"Will you ... will you stay with me, until I fall asleep?" he barely whispered, and was shamed to hear the tremor of fear in his voice. She must think him a base coward, or a babe in need of coddling.

But she only smiled gently, her eyes reflecting not a trace of contempt: only empathy and tender concern.

"Of course! If you'd like, I ... " She paused, and he thought he saw her blush slightly, but it might have been only a trick of the lighting. "I can sing to you."

He smiled back, gratefully. "Yes. That would be quite nice, I think."

And as he lay back upon his pillow, comforted by the candlelight and her reassuring presence, she softly started to sing. His heart panged with poignant memory as he recognised the song as one his own mother used to croon to him, years ago.

Lulled by her sweet voice, and the soothing rocking of the ship, he allowed his eyes to slip shut, and fell into the first truly peaceful sleep he had enjoyed since leaving England ...


	2. Chapter 1

**Liberties**  
>by Luvvycat<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

"Father … what is to become of Will?"

At his daughter's gentle inquiry, Weatherby Swann looked up from his breakfast in their private cabin on the _Dauntless_—the best accommodations the ship had to offer, but cramped nonetheless, and decidedly lacking in the luxuries to which he had been accustomed back in England. "Hmm? What was that?" he asked, distractedly. They were only a couple of days out of Port Royal now, according to Lieutenant Norrington, and his mind was already teeming with lists of things he needed to tend to, once they made landfall.

Elizabeth's brown eyes, unusually bright, were fixed on him, the food on her plate barely touched, though he could hardly blame her for that; the food being, as with the accommodations, barely tolerable. And the dinners they shared with the Captain in his cabin, at his invitation, were only nominally better.

"I only asked, what is to become of Will Turner, once we reach Jamaica?"

He waved a dismissive hand, eager to get back to his interrupted ruminating. "I expect, as he is presently in the care and custody of the Royal Navy, it will be up to the Royal Navy and the local authorities to determine his fate. It is no concern of ours."

His daughter frowned as she seemed to consider this answer. Then her eyes sharpened. "But, Father … as you have been appointed Royal Governor by the king himself … does that not make _you_the local authority?"

He scowled, and was about to launch into an extended lecture regarding jurisdictional authority and maritime law and legal writ and such, but was arrested by the worried look on his daughter's face. His impatience melted under the serious regard of her wide, dark eyes. "Why do you ask, my dear?" he said, more gently.

She dropped her gaze and gave a small, ladylike shrug. "It's only …" Then her lower lip trembled slightly, and when her eyes rose again to meet his they were silvered with the promise of tears, her voice thick with them as well when she spoke. "Oh, Father … I cannot bear the thought of any ill befalling him! What if he's imprisoned? Or _hanged!_"

Swann gave an incredulous little laugh at his daughter's distress. In addition to being possessed of a quite fertile imagination, the girl also was gifted with a flair for the dramatic. "For what offence should he be hanged, Elizabeth? To my knowledge, it is no crime to be the sole survivor of a pirate attack! And if he is guilty of any misdeeds other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I am as yet unaware of it."

Elizabeth opened her mouth, then snapped it shut again with a guilty look, her hand straying toward her dress pocket.

"I—I don't know, Father. I'm only … greatly concerned for his future."

Swann sighed. It was clear that Elizabeth had taken quite a shine to the boy during the course of their journey to Jamaica. He thought of how seriously she had devoted herself to her appointed role of young Turner's caretaker these past few weeks; how, that first night, he had found her curled up, asleep, on the spare cot in the boy's cabin; how sweetly she had sat, demurely, night after night by the boy's bedside—cabin door ajar, of course, at Weatherby's insistence, to prevent even the slightest perception of impropriety—reading to him or singing him to sleep.

Many an evening, after convivially partaking of conversation, after-dinner brandy and a pipe with the _Dauntless_' captain, Weatherby would find it necessary to fetch Elizabeth back to her own bed and rest, having discovered her dozing in the chair next to young Will's cot—her candle having long since sputtered out—book still held loosely in the hand that now lay curled limply in her lap. (Of course, Weatherby could have done without the ill-hidden smirks given him by the guard Lieutenant Norrington continued to post outside Will's door, the sight of a crown-appointed Governor carrying his sleeping daughter cradled in his arms like a particularly well-dressed sack of grain, apparently causing the man some inordinate measure of amusement).

Under Elizabeth's watchful eye, the boy took his daily meals; with the support of her slender arm, he strolled and took the air on the deck; day after day, she assisted him dutifully as he gradually regained his strength.

And it wasn't only Will who benefited by the arrangement. Faced with this new responsibility, Elizabeth, too, seemed to flourish, and Weatherby Swann felt as though an entirely new side of his daughter was being revealed to him as, with each passing day, she seemed to become more mature, more caring and nurturing, selfless and giving.

With a twinge of melancholy centred somewhere in the vicinity of his heart, he realised his little daughter, his darling girl, the apple of his eye, was growing up ...

"I appreciate your concern for him, my dear, but I don't know what you expect me to do."

"Can't he come home with us, Father? Truly, he has no one else in this world to care for him. His mother is … dead," a flicker of pain trembled across her face, and he knew she must also be recalling her own dear mother's passing, "And his father has been missing these past two years, and may be dead as well. He has no home, no family, no money, and everything he owned, save the clothes on his back, was lost when the _Sally Mae_was destroyed."

"Elizabeth," he chided, his voice edged with impatience, "the boy is not a stray pup, to be taken in as a pet!"

Now the tears that had been standing in her swimming gaze made good their tacit threat, and spilled from her beseeching eyes. "Please, Father … we can't just leave him to his fate, cast him adrift in the world …" Again, that sense of drama! How like her mother she was, in that respect! "How horrid I should feel, if we did nothing to help him, and he came to harm …"

As the _coup de grace_, Elizabeth buried her face in her hands and began to sob.

Swann groaned, leaned his elbows on the little table, and cradled his head betwixt his hands at his daughter's histrionic display. He never could bear to see her cry, and though he suspected he was being expertly manipulated, it was an extraordinarily effective tactic that never failed to win her own way in an argument, or earn her leniency when she was to be on the receiving end of punishment.

"Oh, very well!" he said, shortly, with a resigned sigh. "I suppose we can find _some_ use for him. But, mind you …" he said, as his daughter lifted a tear-streaked face beaming with gratitude, "… he will _not_ be treated as a pampered _guest_, but rather as a working member of the staff. The boy must earn his keep."

Elizabeth thanked him with a brief but enthusiastic hug round the neck and a kiss upon his cheek before skipping out the door to inform Will of his good fortune, but Weatherby's mind was already turning back to his ever-growing list of things to be done, adding yet one more task to it.

"Hmmm. Yes," he muttered absently, "I'm sure we'll be able to arrange sufficient tasks to occupy the boy …"

* * *

><p>Once they reached Port Royal, Will Turner was installed in the Governor's household, provided a bed in the servants' quarters, and turned over to the major-domo, who put him to work on various chores about the house and grounds. Before long, he was cheerfully helping to muck out the stables, tending to the weeding of the gardens, polishing the household silver, running errands and performing other odd jobs—whatever would keep idle young hands busy and make industrious use of the boy's time.<p>

In fact, the Governor was pleased to discover that the lad turned out to have a quick and agile mind, an aptitude for working with his hands, and a gentle and respectful disposition that soon endeared him not only to the household staff in general, but also (despite his best efforts to resist the urchin's deferential charm) to Swann himself.

When Will's chores, and Elizabeth's daily lessons, were concluded, Swann would occasionally permit the children time together. In observing their interactions on the _Dauntless_, it was clear that there was something about young Turner that touched Elizabeth, made the shadows that had dwelt in her eyes since his wife's passing fade... brought a smile to her face and a new lightness to her step. In short, thanks to Will Turner, Elizabeth was happier than he'd seen her in quite a long time.

One night, after dinner, he heard a strange sound coming from the library—one that he hadn't heard in nearly seven years.

It was the sound of Elizabeth—_laughing!_

The library door was slightly ajar, so he tiptoed silently toward it and peered through the narrow gap between door and jamb into the chamber beyond.

Will was standing in the centre of the room, lampblack smudged on his upper lip and chin in the sooty approximation of a moustache and beard, a rust-coloured velvet table-drape slung over one shoulder like a cape. A fireplace poker had been stuck into his belt like a sword, and he had somehow managed to affix a writing quill to his simple second-hand tricorne, and with his every motion the quill bobbed like the jaunty feather in a fine gentleman's hat.

"I am Sir Walter Raleigh!" Will crowed, affecting what he clearly thought to be an upper-class accent, which sounded remarkably like Governor Swann himself, at his most pompous. "Here to pay my most humble tribute and respects to my liege, the Good Queen Bess …" He doffed his plumed hat with a flourish, and made a passable leg as he swept into a low, exaggerated bow.

Sitting—nay, practically _bouncing_—on the divan, a leather-bound book of history turned face-down on the cushion next to her, clapping her hands and laughing in delight at her playmate's antics, was Elizabeth!

Tears filled Weatherby's eyes as he spied upon the scene, and he realised that he had not heard his daughter laugh like that since before her mother had died. What sweet music it was, now, to his ears! How dearly he had missed those merry, carefree strains of childish mirth, so long absent from his home!

His heart swelled with affection, both for his beloved daughter, and for the remarkable young man who had worked such a miracle, set Elizabeth's poor motherless heart free from its chains of grief, resurrected her capacity for joy!

So when Elizabeth came to him, two days later, and asked if Will could be included in her daily lessons, how could he refuse?

"He's very clever, Father. His mother taught him his letters, so he can read and write, though of course not as well as I can. I've been trying to teach him more from the books in our library. But how much better, and much more quickly, he would learn, were he to join me in my lessons, from time to time."

"Hmmm," Weatherby had considered carefully, before capitulating. "I suppose t'would be a shame, to deny him the opportunity to learn, when he is so inclined to do so ..."

Happily, as it turned out, helping to school young Turner made his daughter apply herself to her own lessons with greater enthusiasm, and, according to her tutor, most excellent results. Pleased with the news, Weatherby pridefully preened, congratulating himself on his own ingenuity in allowing an arrangement that reaped benefits for all involved parties.

And when, a fortnight after that, Elizabeth asked if Will could accompany her and her new governess on their daily constitutionals to the seashore, or in the mansion's lush gardens, or to the town marketplace, he acquiesced with only a token show of reluctance, for appearance's sake. Couldn't have her thinking that he was _entirely_wrapped around her finger, after all, could he?

Besides, what harm could there be in allowing the children to spend even _more_ time together? If their association had already done Elizabeth's disposition (and education) a world of good … and (perhaps most importantly) as long as it made her _happy_... what could it be but beneficial to her?


	3. Chapter 2

**Liberties**  
>by Luvvycat<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

For Elizabeth, those daily "constitutionals" became the focus of her day, particularly now that she had gained a companion for her frolics. As it turned out, Will had grown up as bereft of siblings and playmates as she had, and those precious hours of liberty—she from her lessons and daughterly duties, Will from his chores—were looked forward to, by both, with eager anticipation. Though they were never far from the watchful eye of her governess, Mistress Meriwether, often, under the influence of the mid-day sun (or perhaps overcome by ennui at the less-than-scintillating contents of her current tome), their chaperone would nod off over her book and enjoy a nap, leaving Elizabeth and Will unsupervised freedom to be the children that they were, no longer Governor's daughter and servant-boy, but merely friends and playfellows.

She enjoyed drawing Will out—staid boy that he tended to be—and found that beneath the well-mannered and humble façade lurked a quick wit and a sharp humour that could be coaxed to the fore, and she never lost an opportunity to do so.

* * *

><p>"Will?"<p>

"Hmmm?"

"What are you thinking of?"

"'M not thinking of anything just now. I'm trying to sleep ..."

She poked him in the ribs. "Please ... tell me."

He sighed, deeply. "I'm thinking that I wish you'd stop poking me, and let me sleep."

Elizabeth looked down at him, stretched out on his back on the sand, eyes closed and dark lashes fanned out upon his cheeks, his ill-fitting, cast-off tricorne tilted down over his nose. She pouted at his unresponsiveness, and, as noisily as she could, started tossing the seashells she had gathered into her basket. She counted each out, loudly, as it went in...

* * *

><p><em>"One! ... two! ... three! ... four! ... five! ... six! ..."<em>

Will sighed again, slitted open an eye. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"It doesn't _sound _like nothing."

"Just counting my shells."

"Well, can't you manage to count more quietly?"

"No. _Seven! ... eight! ... nine! ... ten! ..._"

With a groan, Will surrendered. "All right, Elizabeth … you win." Pushing his hat up and levering himself into a sitting position, he turned a look upon her that contrived to be both annoyed and fond at the same time. If there was one thing he had learned about his friend during these past months of their acquaintance, it was that she always managed to get her way, no matter what. It was a quality he both admired and found (on occasion) quite irritating. "What was the question again?"

She set the basket aside, and turned a sunny, rather self-satisfied (and surprisingly endearing) smile at him, and his annoyance was instantly dispelled. "I asked, what were you thinking of?"

"Truly, nothing in particular," he hedged, not wanting to give rise yet again to a subject that continued to put them at odds with one another.

Her golden-brown gaze regarded him cynically. "Will, no conscious person thinks of absolutely _nothing_."

The expression on her face told him she wouldn't let the matter go. Better, then, to tell her the truth. "Actually, I was thinking about my father ... and perhaps continuing my search for him one day ..."

* * *

><p>"Oh!" Elizabeth felt a twinge of guilt and dismay. She had hoped that he would have forgotten that quest, given it up by now. Not that she begrudged him finding his only living parent (if, indeed, his father <em>was <em>still alive), but she couldn't bear thinking of the danger in which Will might be putting himself.

When she had first learned of his intent to find the elder William Turner, it had briefly crossed her mind to ask her own father to use his influence and connections to help locate Will's. But then she recalled the medallion she'd found in Will's possession ... a _pirate _medallion which, according to Will, had come to him from his father.

The implications of the gift might have eluded Will, but not her. Why would Will's father send his son a pirate medallion, unless he, himself, was a pirate? And, though Will refused to accept the possibility (indeed, he became extremely out of sorts whenever she tried to broach the subject), Elizabeth was convinced all the more that William Turner, senior, was not the honest merchant seaman his son insisted he was. And, if that was true, then how could it benefit Will for _her _father to help find _his_, only to have those dearly-held illusions shattered? Worse, what if his pirate father, once found, was convicted of piracy and condemned to the gallows?

_"A short drop, and a sudden stop ..."_ Lieutenant Norrington's words came back to her, hauntingly. His solution for dealing with pirates. _All _pirates.

And, perhaps, even the blameless _sons _of pirates?

The very thought made her shiver despite the afternoon warmth.

No. It would be the soul of cruelty itself, to reunite father and son, only to have the son watch his father hang ... and perhaps even hang himself. It was quite clear that the Lieutenant's view toward pirates was exceedingly narrow; in his eyes, _all _were deserving of the noose. What if an accident of birth proved to be sufficient grounds to condemn Will as well?

She couldn't ... _wouldn't _do that to Will. After all this time, after lonely years of longing for the fellowship of someone her own age, she would _not _have finally gained a treasured friend, only to see his life end in tragedy and death. Not if she could do something to prevent it.

So, to protect Will, she had kept her silence ... as well as the medallion, safely secured now in a hidden drawer in her bureau. Where it would remain, until she deemed it safe to reveal it (and its secrets) to Will.

She shrugged. "Will ... don't you think, if your father was still alive, that _he _would be searching for _you_? You've been here in Port Royal for the better part of a year now. Certainly, if he had a mind to find you, he would have done so by now?"

Will's face took on a stubborn mien, as it always did when they discussed this singular subject. "Elizabeth ... he's my _father_! My _blood_! If he's out there to be found, it's my responsibility—nay, my _duty _as a son—to do so! Or, if he's no longer alive, to discover what happened to him."

She sighed. "If you say so."

"And ..." he started, then paused.

She turned toward him, saw the guarded look on his face. "Yes?"

"Well ... if he were looking for me ... found out that I left on the _Sally Mae_, and that she sank, with no reported survivors ..."

"Then he may believe you dead, as well."

"Yes."

"But, Will, after all these months, surely the Royal Navy reported you saved. If he made inquiries, he would have learned that you're alive, and living here in Port Royal."

His face fell. "You're right, of course." But, knowing him to be as stubborn as she, in his own way, she knew that wouldn't stop him from searching, on his own, for news of his "sailor" father. She hoped he wouldn't be disappointed—nay, _destroyed_—when he eventually found out the truth.

"Will ..." she started hesitantly, and waited until his dark eyes fixed on her face before continuing, quietly, "Are you _ever _going to tell me what happened that day, on the _Sally Mae_?"

As usual when she raised the subject of _that day_, his face suddenly shuttered, like the hatch of a dark-lantern slamming closed. "I can't," he said, evasively. "In fact, I don't even remember much of that day myself." She knew it as a lie. One thing she had learned about Will was that he had an extraordinary memory … and that he was a very poor liar.

She also knew better than to press him when he was in such a mood. So she tried a different tack.

"Will ..." she set her basket of shells aside, "why don't we play pirates? I've brought those lovely wooden swords you made me for my birthday!"

"What? Again?" She was gratified to see his withdrawn look replaced by one of mild exasperation.

She grinned. "You know it is my favourite game, even if it isn't yours. Besides ..." she slanted him a coy, knowing look. "It's why you made them for me, isn't it? What's the sense of having them, if one can't put them to use? And, as it's a pair, and it's no fun playing pirates by one's self, you and I both know, if one sword is meant for _me_, then you must have intended the other to be for _you _..."

He looked as though he would protest that assumption, but then a telltale blush darkened the already tanned skin of his face, and she knew she had him dead to rights.

"Very well…" he said. Rising to his feet with an exaggerated, long-suffering sigh, he dusted the white sand from the seat of his breeches, then, with a shy smile, held his hand out, brown eyes twinkling as they gazed down into hers. "As m'lady commands!" he said, in his best Sir Walter Raleigh voice.

Placing her hand in his, she gave a short, gay little laugh of victory and allowed him to help her to her feet.

* * *

><p>And another year passed thusly, as they continued to grow, as children invariably do, and also grow closer, neither suspecting that their happy times together, and the beautiful friendship they had forged, could ever come to an end…<p> 


	4. Chapter 3

**Liberties**  
>by Luvvycat<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3<br>**

Miss Swann's governess, Mathilde Meriwether, sat on a blanket under the double-protection of a palm tree and her parasol, shielded from the harshest rays of the Caribbean sun. Heaven forfend that her pale, patrician skin should freckle, when she had spent a lifetime cultivating that perfect peaches-and-cream complexion! Her mother—born of a noble family who had managed to retain their good name, but none of their status or wealth—had always taught her that one could tell a lady of breeding not only by her flawless manners, but also by the milky pallor of her unblemished skin. It's a lesson Mathilde had long taken to heart.

A gentle ocean breeze ruffled the loose, artfully-arranged curls peeping from under the edge of her lacy bonnet along with the leaves of the book she was reading, providing welcome relief from the rather warm afternoon. It was, indeed, quite pleasant to have these moments of ease, whilst overseeing the children's play sessions.

She owed a particular debt of gratitude to Governor Swann. Nigh two years ago, her husband—a high-ranking naval officer of advancing years—had died. In a will she wasn't even aware her husband—a widower, with grown children—had in place, he bequeathed all his properties to his eldest son, born of his first wife. The son, who lived in England and whom she had never even met—having no interest in maintaining a house in Port Royal, or in providing for his father's second wife—had decided to put the house on the block. Mathilde suddenly found herself without husband, home, or livelihood, and only a pittance of a widow's pension from the Royal Navy that came nowhere near keeping her in the lifestyle to which she'd grown accustomed. And her pride was such that she would rather die than to go back to England, hat in hand, to appear on some distant cousin's doorstep, like the onerous "poor relation" dependent on her family's charity.

Hearing of her plight, and taking pity on her, the newly-arrived Governor Swann—who, it turned out, had known her husband, though not well—had agreed to engage her as governess to his twelve-year-old daughter. Though she and her late husband had never been blessed with children, nor had she previously taught children, Mathilde was a learned and literate woman, and possessed a quite liberal knowledge on a wide variety of subjects. Her father—who, before his passing, had been a well-respected professor at Magdalene College, Cambridge—had been insistent that, if Mathilde were to attract a spouse of any breeding and intelligence, it behoved her to hone her own intellect and wit as well. Never had she dreamt, though, that her father's foresight would be her salvation once she became a widow.

Now, she had been installed in the Governor's household—not in the servant's quarters, with the rest of the staff, but (no doubt in deference to her former status, and out of respect for her late husband) in well-appointed rooms adjacent to his daughter's chambers. He had even provided Mathilde her own maid to attend to her, and allowed her to join him and his daughter at table for breakfasts and suppers almost as though she were a member of the family. Thanks to Governor Swann, she had gone from near-destitution, to living as comfortably as ever she had in her own home, but without the bother and burden of actually running a household.

And, knowing that the Governor was a widower himself—and a quite attractive one at that, in a charmingly doddering sort of way (not to mention, at forty-two years of age, near three decades younger than her late husband)—it would be quite a feather in her cap if perhaps, some day, he decided to remarry, and discovered he need look no further than his own doorstep ...

The sound of childish laughter interrupted her pleasant reveries, and she glanced up to make sure nothing was amiss with the children, before returning her wandering attention to her fanciful thoughts.

At the beginning, when the Governor had first hired her on, she had questioned the man's judgement in allowing his daughter to play together with a mere _servant boy_, let alone including him in her daily lessons as though he were Elizabeth's peer, but the girl truly seemed to delight in young Will's company. Besides, who was she to argue, if the Governor himself not only condoned the association but actually encouraged it? Doubtless he had his own reasons for doing so, and it wasn't really her place to question them.

After nearly a year had gone by with no untoward incident (save for something rumoured to have happened over the last holidays whilst Mathilde had been spending Christmas with a friend—something that was only whispered about amongst the servants, but as far as she was concerned had never been substantiated … she, herself, not condescending to listen, nor give credence to, the idle gossip of servants), Mathilde grudgingly accepted that Governor Swann might have been wise, after all, in allowing the playful fraternisation between the two. She supposed, though not exactly decorous behaviour for a young lady of Elizabeth's age and pedigree, the physical exercise provided an outlet for the girl's innate mischief, with which Mathilde had become quite well-acquainted since the high-spirited Miss Swann had become her charge. The girl wouldn't be a child for much longer in any case, and it was best she burn off such unseemly energies before she reached an age when young men started courting her for marriage. No man of sound mind, after all, would want a ... a _tomboy_... for a wife!

At present, the children were gambolling in the sand, hacking at each other with wooden swords. This barbaric activity no longer alarmed Mathilde as it once had, when she'd first witnessed this game of theirs. The Governor had long since explained to her his daughter's strange obsession with pirates and their practises, when Mathilde had taken to confiscating those dreadful, lurid pamphlets the little hoyden had proved to be so fond of reading instead of her schoolbooks.

Elizabeth, wearing young Turner's tricorne atop her blonde head, had discarded her shoes and stockings, and hiked her skirts up several inches, to facilitate ease of movement as she darted across the sand, swinging the faux sword in a graceful arc. Mathilde knew it was immodest to make such a display of one's ankles and calves, but Elizabeth _was _still a young girl, for all her legs had grown several inches this past year, and the beach _was _deserted, save for the three of them, and the raucous gulls.

And young Turner … what a handsome lad he was turning out to be! With those lively brown eyes, dark, wavy hair, and flashing white smile, he no doubt would be a favourite of all the young ladies of Port Royal in a year or two. She could well imagine all the serving girls and tradesmen's daughters who would be setting their caps for a fine young man like him.

Mathilde returned her attention to her book, her mind only half focused on the antics of the children.

_"Take that, scurvy pirate!" _young Will's voice carried over the sound of the rushing sea, the capricious ocean breeze, and the sharp cries of the gulls.

She heard Elizabeth's laughing reply: _"You'll not defeat Captain Jack Sparrow!"_

After a moment, Mathilde noticed things had gone unnaturally silent. Had the children wandered off?

She looked up …

... to see Elizabeth stretched out on the sand, on her back. And the Turner boy …

Why, he was leaning over her, one hand at her waist, his lips pressed to her cheek!

And the chit was smiling up at him as he bent to whisper something into her ear; and Mathilde, having been a young maid herself, not so many years ago, could not mistake the look her young charge was giving the boy.

Oh, no ... this was _not _acceptable! Governor Swann would be very displeased—might even demand her termination notice!—if she permitted this ... this _familiarity _... to continue!

With an outraged cry, rapidly seeing her lovely dreams of becoming Mrs Governor Weatherby Swann dwindle into non-existence, she scrambled up from the blanket, unceremoniously casting her book down into the sand, and hastened across the beach as fast as her feet could carry her.

Before she knew it, she had the boy's ear in her grasp, and was yanking it most sharply. "Get off her, you young ruffian! What do you think you're doing?"

The boy let out a pubescent yelp as Mathilde hauled him, by his ear, to his feet. The boy stood, now, nearly as tall as she was, and she vaguely wondered: When had _that _happened? There was an echoing cry of protest from Elizabeth as she leapt to her playmate's defence.

"Oh, please, Mathilde!" the girl plucked at her sleeve, her eyes wide and shining with maidenly innocence. "I'm perfectly all right, see? We were only playing!"

She cast a withering glance at the girl before turning her basilisk glare back upon the boy. "Yes! I could see with mine own eyes what _he _was playing at, all too well!" Still latched onto his ear, she shook the boy, and he yelped again. "Now, get your shoes back on, the both of you! We're returning to the house ... _now!_"

* * *

><p>All the way back to the Governor's mansion, Elizabeth floated above the ground, replaying Will's words to her ... the words he had breathed in her ear, after pressing his soft, warm lips to her flushed cheek.<p>

_"Captain Sparrow ... you're _beautiful_!"_

She had always been fond of Will, and he of her. They had been playfellows for going on two years now, nigh inseparable when their free time coincided, sharing confidences and stories and dribs and drabs of their childhood memories, as well as the occasional "adventure." In Will, she had found not only a companion, a playmate, but a confidante, a _friend_, for the first time in her young life. Since they had pulled him from the cold, cold sea, and Father had commended him to her care, she had ever harboured feelings of affection toward Will.

But, hearing his words today, it was as though a little fire had been kindled in her heart, hot and bright and tingly. Her entire self seemed aglow with that lambent warmth.

_He called me beautiful! Will thinks I'm beautiful!_

And she blushed as she suddenly found herself thinking what it would feel like to have those lips not on her cheek, but pressed, soft and warm, against her _mouth _...

She stole a sidelong glance at Will, but found him frowning, his face bright red, shuttered and grim, still rubbing his scarlet ear where Mathilde had grasped him so cruelly.

But she knew ... she _knew _... that something had changed between them. Something that had nothing to do with playtime and childish games and shared giggles.

Nothing to do with childhood.

And everything to do with _love_.

* * *

><p>Once she had settled Elizabeth upstairs and set her to her reading, Mathilde went downstairs, trudging toward the Governor's study with leaden feet and a heavy heart. She was reluctant to approach him, fearing that he might turn the blame onto her for what had occurred ... what he'd think she <em>allowed <em>to occur, since _she's _the one whom he had entrusted with the responsibility of watching over the children's play.

But, as the girl's father, the man _needed _to know what had happened today. Her conscience would not allow her to withhold such vital information, regardless of the consequences to herself

Straightening her back and taking a deep, bracing breath, Mathilde rapped gently but firmly on the door …


	5. Chapter 4

**Liberties**  
>by Luvvycat<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<br>**

What Mathilde had told him distressed Governor Weatherby Swann greatly. That boy, that _foundling _they had taken into their home—a boy he had practically come to regard as a son, and all but a _brother _to Elizabeth—had _kissed _his daughter!

Weatherby frowned, knowing it was all his fault, for indulging his wilful and wayward child. He knew how isolated she had felt back in England ... how deeply she had mourned the eagerly-anticipated baby brother who had died when his wife had perished in childbed, how sorely she had wanted for playmates. And, indeed, since young Turner had come into their lives, he had watched his daughter blossom like a long-neglected bud newly introduced to daylight, seen the sparkle return to her eyes, the rosy bloom of merry, carefree youth to her cheeks, the sun to her sweet smile. He had watched her become again the happy, lively girl she had been, before tragedy had been visited upon their family. So he had turned a blind eye to the potential dangers, and convinced himself that nought but good could come of it.

More fool, he!

The boy had forgotten his place, had aspired to rise above his station in life. And he himself had allowed it to happen—had, in some ways, even encouraged such a thing!

Even after that unfortunate incident last Christmas, when Will and Elizabeth had stolen away in the middle of the night, purportedly on an errand of charity, he had been (all too easily, he now saw, because he truly hadn't wanted to believe ill of the lad!) persuaded by Elizabeth to overlook the boy's transgressions, the wheels of forgiveness greased by the moving tales she had told of Will's late mother and her generous spirit.

Granted, young Turner had been on best behaviour since then, and after a brief period of separation during which Will had been essentially "on trial" in the Governor's eyes, Weatherby had written the incident off as merely a youthful lapse of judgment on the children's part, and allowed their association to resume (mostly because he couldn't bear to see Elizabeth unhappy).

Now, he regretted not tossing the young rascal out on his ear when he'd had the chance! Perhaps if he had stood firm, and done his fatherly duty _then _to protect his daughter, this current indiscretion, and the difficult decision Swann now was forced to make—a decision he knew would likely cause his daughter considerable heartache—might have been avoided.

The worst part of it was that he genuinely _liked _the boy. Under different circumstances … were Turner higher-born, a son of the peerage, with a secure future, a title and family fortune to bestow upon Elizabeth, Weatherby might have agreed that they, eventually, make a match, when the time was appropriate.

But this new turn of events … this over-familiarity, these _liberties _Will had taken with his daughter, could clearly not be countenanced, regardless of his fondness for the lad. Yes, he must nip this in the bud, and quickly, before further damage could be done. Elizabeth had just turned fourteen, after all. In a few short years, she would be of marriageable age, ready to be introduced to society and have well-bred and well-fixed suitors vying for her hand. He … and she … could ill afford to have her reputation ruined, at this stage of the game … or, rather, _before _the game had even begun!

No. That would be unthinkable.

The boy was practically fifteen. Plenty old enough to go out on his own and start learning a trade, make a livelihood independent of the Swanns' aegis. And it was high time that Elizabeth learned the ways that would serve a young woman preparing to become a proper gentleman's wife. Perhaps, if he played his cards right, he could secure _both _Will's future and his daughter's with one strategic move.

Though he knew it would break Elizabeth's heart for him to send Will Turner away—to be perfectly honest, he would miss the boy himself—he couldn't see that he had much choice in the matter. Elizabeth's best interests needed to be his first, foremost … indeed, his _only _… concern.

He determined to have his man make some inquiries amongst the local tradesmen; see who might have need of a bright and industrious young lad they would take on as a shop-boy, assistant or apprentice.

And he, himself, would make a point of speaking with Mistress Meriwether, posthaste, regarding the alteration in Elizabeth's educational syllabus…

* * *

><p>Will was full of trepidation, a few days later, when he was informed that Governor Swann wanted to see him, as he had never been summoned to the man's study before. He wasn't sure if that boded well or ill for himself; whether he should be expecting reward or punishment.<p>

When he reached the study door, he knocked nervously and waited until the Governor bade him enter.

He turned the handle and eased the door open, sidling into the room with his belly all a-flutter with anxiety. "Sir …" he began, and was mortified that his voice cracked, "You wished to see me?" Belatedly remembering his manners, he swept his hat from his head, holding it nervously in front of his stomach as though to catch the butterflies raging within, which threatened to burst free at any moment.

As Governor Swann looked up, Will was relieved to see that he did not appear to be angry, but rather welcoming. "Ah! Master Turner! Please do come in." He indicated a chair before the desk. "Would you care to have a seat?"

At least he wasn't being asked to remain standing in front of Swann, like a recalcitrant schoolboy. "Y-yes, thank you, sir," he stammered, taking the offered seat and placing his hat in his lap.

"I have some splendid news for you, which I hope you will look upon favourably." Swann clasped his hands behind his back, and started pacing back and forth, slowly, as he spoke. "I realise you are at an age now when a young man is beginning to think about his future … learning a trade … earning a livelihood … making his own way in the world …"

"S-sir?" Will asked, confused.

"I know a bright and ambitious boy like you cannot be satisfied doing the menial level of work you've been given here. Mucking out stables, and such …" The Governor wrinkled his nose in obvious distaste at the mere thought.

"It's good, honest work, sir, and I am more than happy to do it!" Will protested.

Swann made a dismissive gesture with his hand, as though waving away a bad smell. "Bah! You're capable of so much more, Master Turner. Not just rough labour, which, excuse my saying, any cotton-headed dolt can do. I've always felt that you were cut out for better. A trade. A vocation. A chance to work with your hands, to create things, to have something lasting and tangible to show for your labours. I've seen the swords that you fashioned for Elizabeth for her thirteenth birthday. They are really quite extraordinary. You have an amazing sense of craftsmanship and an impeccable eye for detail, if I may say so."

Will could only stare, and wait for the Governor to come to the point.

"To that end, young man, and with the utmost consideration for your future, I have made inquiries on your behalf, and discovered that the local blacksmith is in need of a boy to assist him at his workshop. Further, I have taken the liberty of making the necessary arrangements with him for you to be taken on as his apprentice, including paying Master and Mistress Brown a handsome fee to compensate for any expenses they might incur for your upkeep."

The butterflies died, and thudded to the bottom of Will's stomach like a dropped anchor.

"You … you are sending me away, sir?" _Away from here, away from Elizabeth …_

"Yes, well … you _will _go and live with Brown and his wife. They are prepared to receive you tomorrow morning, at first light. I am assured they do have a quite comfortable space for you in the loft of the workshop. But, pray, don't think of it as going _away_, my boy … consider it, rather, going _onward _to a new opportunity!"

"Thank you, sir. I'm sure, as you say, it is quite a … splendid … opportunity. But, if it's all the same to you, sir, I'd much rather stay here, with you, and …"

"And with Elizabeth," Swann finished for him, his tone taking on a hard edge below the beneficent veneer. "Yes, well, I'm afraid that is _not _an option."

Will was keen enough to pick up the undertone, and recognise it for what it was. "Have I done anything to offend you, sir … or to offend Elizabeth? Is that why I'm being sent away?"

"As I've already said, son, you're not—"

"Beg pardon, sir," he interrupted. "I know what you _said_. But I think I would much rather prefer to hear the _truth_."

For a moment, Governor Swann's visage darkened at this effrontery, and he seemed ready to take him to task for his rudeness. However, under Will's steady gaze, the Governor seemed to deflate a little, his shoulders drooping in resignation. "All right …" he conceded. "The truth."

Will watched as Swann slowly took his own seat, slumping tiredly in his chair. "Master Turner … Will," he said, gently. "You and Elizabeth have been companions for the past ... what is it, now? ... nearly two years? And I have seen how happy she has been in your company … happiest than I've ever seen her in recent years, and I know that is largely due to your friendship.

"However, both of you are getting older now, and, though not yet adults, you are clearly no longer children. It has not escaped my attention that you and she have grown inordinately … fond … of one another as of late. Nonetheless, your youthful zeal could very well lead to consequences that are both undesirable and unacceptable, if your interest in one another takes a more … _romantic _… turn."

Will opened his mouth to protest, puzzled, but then a thought occurred to him, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. He closed his mouth, his lips pressed into a tight line for a moment, before continuing, cautiously. "Sir, is this about … well … about … _the kiss_?"

The grey eyes regarded him coolly. "Yes, Master Turner. That is _exactly _what this is about."

"B-but …" he stammered. "It was _nothing_, sir! Just a little kiss on the cheek … between _friends_, sir! I didn't _mean _anything by it, honestly!"

"The question is not what it meant to _you_, Turner … but what it may have meant to my daughter." He fixed Will with serious eyes. "And what ill may come of it, if she takes it into her head that she is in love with you."

"But, sir …" Will protested, aghast at what the man was implying. "I would never, _ever _do anything to dishonour Eliz—" He caught himself, revising the familiar to the more formally polite, "—Miss Swann!"

Governor Swann sighed, the lines on his face seeming to deepen. "My dear boy, you already _have _…" Will gave him a perplexed look, and Swann continued. "Are you familiar with the word 'reputation', Master Turner?"

"I—I believe so," he said, warily.

"Well, reputation is very important, Master Turner, particularly for a young lady. Particularly for a young lady of _breeding _who hopes someday to make a good match in marriage. You see, boy, a lady's reputation is a precious commodity where making a good marriage is concerned. As a general rule, gentlemen of means and high social standing do not marry young women whose reputations are in any way … tarnished, or whose … virtue … is called into question."

Will felt his face flame. "And how does one little kiss … a simple show of affection … tarnish Miss Swann's virtue, sir?"

"Because, Master Turner, virtuous young women do not allow young men … and _common _young men at that (no offence!) … to kiss them, on a public beach, in broad daylight, where anyone with open eyes and a wagging tongue can observe them."

Will felt a flare of anger—both at what the man was insinuating in regard to his intentions toward Elizabeth, as well as his apparently low estimation of Will's character—and couldn't prevent it showing in his eyes. "Would it have been more acceptable to you, sir, had we done it in private, behind closed doors, where no-one could see us?" he said, sardonically and with adolescent heat.

Will immediately regretted his impetuous words as the Governor's face flushed bright red, and he seemed on the brink of a fit of apoplexy. "Do not be flippant with me, boy!" Swann roared, slamming his palm down on the desk so hard that the fixtures rattled and the inkwell jumped and nearly toppled over. "Not where my daughter is concerned!"

Will's eyes widened, his youthful ire evaporating as his heart suddenly pounded in fear. He had seldom seen the always mild-mannered Governor Swann so discomposed. In fact, the only other time he had seen him anywhere near this angry was during that incident Christmas last!

Seeing the look on Will's face, Swann relented somewhat, obviously struggling to regain his composure. "Have care, young man. My daughter is _everything _to me, and I will not have her future put in jeopardy because of you."

He sighed again, and suddenly his face seemed markedly older, his voice worn and tired. "I do not mean to be indelicate, boy, but a parentless child such as yourself should surely understand and appreciate the fact that I will not always be here for Elizabeth …" Was that a shine of tears Will detected in the Governor's weary eyes? "… and I need to know that her life and well-being are in good hands … that she will be taken care of, in the manner to which she is accustomed, after I am gone."

Will nodded, suddenly feeling much more ancient than his fifteen years. He indeed knew what it was to be alone in the world, to be forced to make his own way, to fend for himself, without the help of a friend, without the succour of family. He would _never _wish that fate upon Elizabeth. He would _die _rather than see her come to ruination. He simply cared for her too much. And he owed this man, and his extraordinary daughter, a debt of deep and abiding gratitude, for saving his life, for inviting him into their home, for giving him an anchor and stability at a time when he had been lost and uncertain of his place in the world ...

"My apologies, sir. I _do _understand," he said, quietly. "And I want what's best for her as well."

Swann exhaled, relief evident on his face. "Good. I am glad we are in accord on that point."

Will nodded, his heart heavy at the thought of losing not only his best friend but also the only home he had known for the past two years, then asked, hesitantly, "Sir ... am I to be permitted ... to make my farewells to Elizabeth, before I leave? She will be greatly upset if I depart without saying good-bye, and I've no wish to hurt her."

The Governor's face hardened again. "I'm afraid that will not be possible, Master Turner."

Sadness flooded Will and, like the day his mother died, he knew that his life was changing yet again, his future being rewritten even as they spoke. "But we are bound to see one another, sir ... in town, on the street ... What shall I say to her, then?"

"Once you leave here, young man, you are to have no further contact with Elizabeth. And if your paths happen, by accident, to cross, you are to address her not by her Christian name, but only as 'Miss Swann'; your manner is to be polite and formal, and you are to refrain from any form of address or behaviour that could be construed as being ... familiar. Am I understood?"

"Utterly," Will replied, with sinking heart. Replacing his tricorne on his head, he half-turned to go, then turned back as another thought occurred to him. "But, sir …?"

Swann looked up, his face drained and sad. "Yes?"

"May I speak frankly, sir? As someone who also has Elizabeth's best interests at heart?"

The Governor's eyes narrowed at him for a moment, and long seconds passed before he responded, with a graciousness that sounded to Will's ears rather forced, "Of course."

"You've told me, quite clearly, what _you _want. But have you …" He paused. "Have you ever thought to ask Elizabeth what _she _wants?"

Swann's silence spoke volumes as Will left the room and headed to the servants' quarters to pack his few belongings.


	6. Chapter 5

**Liberties**  
>by Luvvycat<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<br>**

Elizabeth had been furious, of course—as Weatherby had fully expected she would be—when she discovered Will had disappeared ... her ire directed first at Will, when he failed to appear for their daily lessons and outings, then, as she came to suspect the true reason for Will's absence, at her father.

She confronted him at the breakfast table, once two days has passed, with still no sign of her friend. "What have you done with Will?"

He looked up at her in surprise, then frowned. "Mind your tone, Elizabeth! And, in answer to your question, I have done nothing with the boy. What makes you think so?"

She flapped her hands with all the righteous outrage of an adolescent girl. "Why else would he have left, if not by your bidding? And without saying good-bye?"

Weatherby sighed wearily, regretting the obvious hurt in her eyes that his regrettably necessary handling of the Will Turner dilemma had caused. He and his conscience were somewhat balmed, however, by the conviction that what he had done had been done for her own good, and to ensure her future happiness and prosperity.

"Elizabeth, young men—at least those of any substance or quality—eventually have to consider the future … must choose a path, and work toward making their own way in the world. And that is what William has done."

She looked at him in confusion. "What do you mean?"

He knew he must use a delicate approach, tread carefully in laying out his _mélange _of truth and fiction. The last thing he wanted was for Elizabeth to know that he had deliberately gotten rid of her friend and budding romantic fixation.

"Apparently, Master Brown, the blacksmith, was in need of an apprentice to help him in his shop, to learn the trade and perhaps eventually take over the business when he retires, as Brown and his wife are childless, and have no heir to pass the business on to." That much, at least, was no more or less than the truth. Ruing the circumstances that made it necessary to lie to his daughter, he continued. "Will came to me a few days ago, seeking permission to leave my employ so he could accept that apprenticeship."

Weatherby's heart panged at the distress, the disbelief he saw in her eyes, along with the liquid shine of budding tears. "But why didn't he tell me?"

"I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I suppose I should have told you, but he asked me not to. I had presumed he wanted to tell you himself, when he thought the time right to do so. You can't fault a young man, after all, for seeking to make a secure and comfortable livelihood for himself, for that day when he must support wife and family."

Elizabeth went utterly still, and Weatherby could see her mind working, processing what he had just told her. "He said that? That he wanted to be able to support a wife and family?"

"Perhaps not in those precise words, but that was the impression I got."

"Did he…" she began, then paused, a slight blush stealing across her cheeks. "Did he mention _whom _he might be considering marrying?"

"No … I don't recall that he did. In any case, I doubt that a boy that young has anyone _specific _in mind yet, but I must say it's to his credit that, at his age, he's at least _thinking _about the future … and marriage, as that day _must _come, eventually, for every man…"

As much as he despised the lies, he was relieved to see Elizabeth's anger at him had evaporated, as a small, secretive smile graced her lips.

Let her believe, for now, what she wanted to believe: that Will was doing this so they could eventually be together; as well as what Weatherby _wanted _her to believe: that Turner had left of his own accord. Soon enough, the point would be a moot one, as her romantic sights turned elsewhere, and Will Turner became little more than a childhood memory, merely a boy she once used to know, long ago…

* * *

><p>To Weatherby's further relief, Will Turner proved true to his word. A few months after his sudden departure from the Swann household, Mistress Meriwether reported that she and Elizabeth, during a shopping expedition into town, had met Will by happenstance in the marketplace, and though clearly happy to see Elizabeth, the boy had been polite and deferential toward his old friend, cordial enough, but without a hint of forwardness. And though Elizabeth had been clearly disconcerted at first by the new distance between them, she had also seemed surprisingly accepting of their change of status.<p>

However, that evening, as Weatherby was passing Elizabeth's room on his way to retiring for the night, he was saddened to hear the sound of his daughter, sobbing as she had not done since her mother's passing.

For a moment, he stood outside her door, hand raised to knock, his first fatherly instinct being to go to the child of his heart—to hold her in his arms, to give her comfort, as he had done often enough when she was a little girl. But, awash with feelings of remorse … his conscience pricking him most fiercely with the knowledge that those unhappy tears could be laid upon his own doorstep, as he was the one who'd sent Will away … he found he could not bring himself to commit that act of ultimate hypocrisy, offering succour for a pain he had inflicted upon her himself.

And so he continued to his room, down at heart, but also secure in the fact that he had likely saved his daughter from pinning her future to a young man who could offer her little but a descent into near-poverty.

Her grief would pass. It _must_, as all childish infatuations did, as swiftly as the seasons. He recalled himself at her and Will's age, under the heady influence of those first rushes of adolescent humours—how his head had been turned by every pretty face he saw, the "undying love" he swore he felt for each lasting only until the next ball, the next pretty face.

_She'll get over it, you'll see_, he told himself, as guilt and doubts plagued his rest that night, and the nights that followed. _Once she recognises the world that can open up for her, see the superior quality of potential husbands available to her from the best, wealthiest, most pedigreed families the English colonies have to offer, she'll forget all about Will Turner—perhaps, recalling the follies of her youth, even come to thank her lucky stars that she was saved from making a grievous and disastrous mistake by setting her sights so low! _

At least that's what he hoped and wished would happen, for Elizabeth's sake, and for his own.

* * *

><p>And, as the months, and then the years went by, that seemed to be precisely what came to pass. Elizabeth spoke less and less about Will Turner, stirred herself from her incessant moping, and applied herself most dutifully to her domestic studies, and when she was sixteen, made her successful debut in Port Royal society. But, though many a man in the ensuing years showed interest in claiming her hand, and with it the status of son-in-law to a crown-appointed Governor, she rebuffed their attempts at wooing with cool, detached disinterest, and would have none of them. (Truth be told, neither would Weatherby, finding fault with each, some small personal flaw that, in his eyes, made them unworthy of his daughter.)<p>

Until the day the impeccably proper James Norrington, long-time family friend and rising star of the Royal Navy, came to him, confided his tender feelings toward Elizabeth, and sought permission to press his suit…


	7. Epilogue

**Liberties**  
>by Luvvycat<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Epilogue<br>**

Childish laughter rose above the chuckling waves, mingled with the gulls' _ha-ha_ cries.

"Take that, scurvy dog!" Elizabeth Swann Turner cried, wooden sword arcing, shuddering as it impacted her opponent's. She was barefoot, skirts hiked to mid-calf, tricorne perched atop her tangled blonde hair.

"Ye'll not defeat Captain Jack Sparrow!" young Turner cried. As a stray breeze blew hair into his adversary's eyes, he saw his opportunity, and lunged. His sword slipped under her right arm … by the rules of the game, a fatal hit!

She looked down, surprised ... gave a shriek of exaggerated mortal pain ... pirouetted into a graceful parody of death ... fell to the sand, where she lay on her back, kicking her heels and flailing her arms, then fell utterly still, save for her heaving chest and twitching lips. Her opponent whooped and cavorted across the sand in a joyous victory dance.

Then the boy threw down his sword, ran to her, bent to fling small arms around her neck, and pressed his lips to her flushed cheek. "I love you, Mama ..."

Elizabeth raised her arms to wrap them around her young son, and her quivering lips broke into a wide toothy grin ordinarily reserved for hopeless lunatics and doting mothers. Sitting up, she drew him onto her lap, lifted his own tricorne, and planted an affectionate kiss atop his dark head. "Love you too, sweet-pea."

He wrinkled his pert little nose, squirmed in her embrace. "Aw, Mama ... don't call me that! I'm not a baby anymore..." he pouted, with all the affronted dignity of the typical five-year-old. "I'm _Billy_...!"

She ruffled his hair, and plunked the hat back onto his head, smiling fondly. "As you wish, Billy-my-love!"

He rolled his eyes at her. "_Mama!_" he whined.

She sighed in maternal exasperation. "Young man, I'm still your mother, and Pirate King to boot, and as such I can call you whatever I bloody well please! Savvy?" The corner of her mouth quirked with suppressed mirth, belying the sternness of her tone.

He wriggled out of her lap and stood before her. "Aye ... my leech..." He attempted to use a term that he had, no doubt, heard his Uncle Jack use when addressing her, and tried to also mimic his uncle's flamboyant bow and flourish.

The smile blossomed, followed by laughter. "That's _liege_, Master Turner!" She reached forth and twitched his hat, playfully, down over his eyes. "And you have leave to call me _Mama_, you young scoundrel!"

He flashed her a smile in return, and she caught her breath, thinking of a similar grin, glinting with gold. _No ... impossible! It's just another thing he's picked up from Jack, like "my liege" and the bow ..._

"Mama, may I go look for turtle eggs?"

"Yes, you may ... but don't go far. We'll be heading back to the ship shortly ..."

Billy paused only long enough to snatch up his wooden sword from the sand, and then he was off, running along the beach, swinging it merrily at a flock of gulls taking their leisure at the water's edge.

Watching her son skip along the shoreline with adoring eyes, she heard a deep, familiar chuckle behind her, and turned.

About twenty feet away, the beach rose and gave way to a stand of lush tropical foliage. Sitting with his back leant against the trunk of a tall palm tree, knees raised and splayed, hat pulled down low over his eyes, was Jack Sparrow.

She bent and picked up her own faux weapon, tugged at her hiked-up skirt (a rarity for her, nowadays! She much preferred the comfort of men's breeches) until it fell into more modest lines, concealing her bare legs, and strode up the rise to join him. He had taken off his boots and coat, which now lay next to him on the grass, near her own discarded waistcoat and boots.

She settled herself on his spread-out coat, placing her wooden sword between them, and he handed her a flask from which he'd just been drinking. "The lads are nearly done fillin' the last of the water barrels. We should be ready to haul anchor within the hour."

She tilted the flask to her lips, and tasted Jack on her tongue just before the darkly sweet burn of rum flooded her mouth, slipping down her throat with familiar heat.

"How long have you been sitting here?" she asked casually, handing the flask back.

"Oh, a while. Long enough to see your little skirmish with the junior whelp, and your most moving death scene. Strewth, Lizzie, you should be treading the boards in London Town. The theatre's finest actresses couldn't've played it with more conviction! Missed your true callin', you did..." There was a hint of mocking laughter in his voice.

She flung one arm out, the back of her fisted hand impacting quite sharply with his solar plexus, and his laugh exploded on a burst of forcibly-expelled breath. She smirked as he sidled closer and draped an arm around her, drawing her close. She allowed her head to fall for a moment to his muscular, linen-swathed shoulder, while they both watched the frolicsome Billy terrorise another flock of hapless seabirds, then start poking his wooden sword into the sand, looking for buried turtle nests, with their trove of large, pearly eggs.

Jack scooted even closer, then suddenly grunted in discomfort. Elizabeth turned as he released her shoulders, to find him frowning and levering his arse off the ground. "What's the matter?" she asked.

He reached down and drew forth the wooden sword that had been on the ground between them. She grinned wickedly, and laughed. "This isn't the first time you've sat on a sword, Jack! Luckily, this one's not near as sharp ..."

He turned his head enough to scowl down his nose at her, then held the weapon athwart his upraised palms, eyes narrowing as he studied it. "Quite a good facsimile ... nice workmanship. Where'd you get it?"

"Will made the pair of them, when _we _were children." Nostalgia softened her features as she thought of those long-ago days. "He left them behind, when he went to start his apprenticeship at Mister Brown's forge."

"Hmmm," Jack said, handing her the sword. "Even way back then, he was fixated on pointy things ..."

She ran her finger along the carvings on the well-worn hilt, smiling. "He made them, in fact, for _me_, for my thirteenth birthday. Playing pirates was our favourite game ... well, mine at least. After the sinking of the _Sally Mae_, Will didn't care all that much for pirates." She looked out at the turquoise sea, where the anchored _Black Pearl _bobbed on the water. One of the longboats was heading back to the ship, laden with newly-filled barrels of fresh water from the island's spring.

Jack brushed his tar-stained fingers through the hair at her temple. "And, of course, in typical Will Turner fashion, he played along to make you happy."

She sighed. "Yes, I suppose he did. But we spent many an afternoon, down at the beach, just like this—" she nodded to where she and Billy had been duelling, "—haring across the sand and whacking away at one another. Will was always the Royal Navy, and I was—" She stopped and bit her lip as she looked down at the sword resting in her lap, feeling a telltale blush heat her cheeks.

"You were ...?" Jack prompted. "A pirate, I presume?"

"Yes," Elizabeth confirmed, schooling her face into lines of insouciance as she slanted him a guarded glance.

She saw Jack's eyes sharpen with suspicion, and he leaned closer, his breath warm, his voice low as he murmured in her ear, "Any ... _particular _pirate?"

Her blush deepened, tellingly, and he smirked goldenly.

"Might it have been ..." his voice was rough velvet, and she felt something within her tighten pleasantly in response, "... _this _pirate?" He nuzzled her ear, then softly bit her earlobe.

She turned toward him, knowing the truth was evident in her glowing eyes, and he claimed her lips in a long, lingering kiss. She sighed, and returned the kiss with an enthusiasm that left them both breathless, and her a-throb with need.

She felt his hand steal around her waist, fingers digging into the soft and yielding flesh under her clothing. "How long d'you think the lad will be occupied?" Dark, passion-filled eyes met hers, before darting to the denser, more concealing foliage behind them, his thoughts all too clear. His free hand traced the "v" of her open-necked shirt, provocatively, and his head dipped to hers for another deep, open-mouthed kiss.

She indulged him for a moment, losing herself in the moist heat of his mouth, before breaking away. "Jack ..." she said, warningly. "We can't ... Billy—"

He glanced down at the beach, where the object of her concern was busily digging in the sand. As though feeling their eyes upon him, Billy looked up, grinned and waved at them, then resumed his activity.

"Ten minutes ..." Jack murmured, his wandering hand moving to curl around her breast.

She slapped his hand away. "Jack!" she admonished, in the same tone with which she usually chastised her young son. At the pirate's sulky pout, she took pity on him, and added, "Besides ... if you can wait until we're back on the _Pearl _... alone, in the privacy of our cabin ... I'll give you your ten minutes." She brushed her fingers softly across the high, tanned arch of his cheek, and pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. "And much, _much _more ..."

His dark eyes smouldered. "Promise?" he purred, his nose brushing hers.

"My word, as a pirate..." she breathed against his mouth.

He smiled against her lips. "Shall we seal the deal, then ... My Liege?"

She let him kiss her again, briefly, before breaking on a giggle.

He frowned down at her in mock insult. "Not the reaction I had hoped for!"

She explained, between giggles, "It's just that you reminded me of something Billy said to me, earlier ..." She proceeded to tell him about her son's mispronunciation, and soon they were both laughing.

"The lad's not too far off the mark, methinks," Jack quipped, tracing her lower lip with one tanned, stained fingertip, his voice deepening to a seductive growl. "If he only knew what that mouth can do ..."

She rolled her eyes, then turned and settled against his side with a sigh. They both watched the capering boy for a moment, in silence, and then Elizabeth spoke:

"Do you suppose Will knows ... about Billy?" It had been nearly six years since she'd last seen Will. It would be another four yet until she was set to return to the little island for her appointed rendezvous with her husband. It was a reunion she both greatly anticipated, and dreaded to the depths of her soul.

Though her love for Will had not faded over the years, her love for Jack had grown during their time together. Loving Jack, immersing herself in his world—a pirate's world, which had now partly perforce, partly by choice become her own—had transformed her, irrevocably. She wasn't the same young woman Will had left on that isolated beach six years ago. So much had changed, her life taken a much different course since Will and she had parted company. She wondered what changes the years had wrought in her husband as well. Would he still be the same man, the same Will Turner she had married, all those years ago?

"He must know, by now," Jack replied. "If nothing else, Cotton must've told him…"

Her smile grew sad as she thought of poor Cotton. The loyal crewmember had taken his leave of them a little over a year ago, choosing to retire from The Sweet Trade after a particularly lucrative raid they'd made on a well-laden merchant barque that had led the _Pearl _a merry chase a few miles off the coast of Bermuda. They had gone their separate ways at Nassau Port, with Cotton flush with his share of the booty, and looking forward to spending the remainder of his days as a man of leisure.

One morning, a month later, they had awakened to find Cotton's parrot perched on the lowest yard of the _Pearl_'s mizzenmast, mournfully repeating the cry of "Dead men tell no tales!" There was only one reason they could think of that would cause Cotton's parrot to leave his master's side. The tales they had heard upon their next trip back to Tortuga confirmed what they'd all feared: the ship on which Cotton had been travelling to his chosen place of retirement had gone down in a sudden, fierce storm two days out of Nassau, and he had been lost at sea, presumably drowned.

She dropped her head again to Jack's shoulder, her eyes still fixed upon her son, and Jack's arm around her tightened. "I wonder if..." she started. "Well ... if Cotton's power of speech was restored, once he—crossed over."

Jack was silent for a moment before responding, softly, "I reckon that's a question you can pose to William, when you see him again."

She did not miss the guardedness in Jack's tone. She knew that he shared her misgivings about her reunion with Will, and how (or if) it would change things between her and Jack. She loved having Jack in her life, and in her bed, but neither of them knew what would happen in four year's time, when Will entered the picture again (at least, for the one day Calypso allowed him).

In any case, if there was one lesson she had learned, and learned regrettably well, since the day Cutler Beckett arrived in Port Royal and turned their world upside-down, it was that _nothing _in life was permanent, no future cast in stone, no happy endings guaranteed, no-one (no matter how dearly you loved them) safe from death's inescapable reach. _Every _mortal lived on borrowed time, so she had taken a leaf from Jack's book of philosophy: to live each day as if it could be your last on earth, and avail yourself fully of what pleasures you find. She had also resolved to embrace the people she loved and make the most of what time she had with them.

Six years ago, she had looked on helplessly as Will's life ebbed away in a spreading pool of blood and rainwater, then soared with Jack on the storm's wings into the swirling grey-skied heart of Calypso's fury. At the time, with the weight of her accumulated losses threatening to pull her under into a maelstrom of despair every bit as deadly as the one she watched swallow the _Dutchman_, and Will along with it, she thought she'd never be happy again.

She'd been wrong. Thanks to Jack. And also to Will—her husband, her lover, her dearest friend—for not making her choose between the two of them when he'd left to begin his first ten-year exile in Calypso's service.

Though, to be sure, the tenuous life she'd built since then as Pirate King was far from the picture of domestic bliss she'd once dreamt, in her girlish youth, of having as Mrs William Turner, at this very moment, sitting here, enjoying a gloriously lovely Caribbean day, watching her beautiful son playing free of care on a sun-washed beach, the _Black Pearl _anchored just offshore, Jack's arm tight around her (and the prospect of deeper, more thrilling intimacies to come, later), she _was _content. Supremely. Completely.

The world turned, and life went on. Birth. Life. Love. Death. That was the natural order of things since time immemorial, and there was little she could do to stop that irresistible tide (though both she and Jack had tried, and failed).

But, as she turned her head and pressed a kiss to the side of Jack's warm, salty neck, her arm sliding around his waist … tilted her gaze up to see the corner of his eye crinkle and his cheek swell as he grinned in response, loosing a volley of golden sparks that rivalled the sun's brilliance, she knew whatever days Fate had allotted to her would not be wasted …

Nor would the nights …


End file.
